


Thérèse

by Its_Always_1895



Category: A Tale of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-10 20:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19515478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Its_Always_1895/pseuds/Its_Always_1895
Summary: A look into the mind of a murderess.





	1. Prologue

Therese.

That's me.

But I'm not usually known by that name. Madame Defarge is what most people call me. I'm the knitter, the runner of the wine-shop; the common workingwoman who simply does what she must. I'm the killer whose hands kit death into even stitches, and beautiful designs and whose heart is as cold and hard as the walls of the Bastille.

Not as unmovable as them, no. For someday, perhaps in my lifetime, those walls will move. They will come crashing down and bury the tyrants in their rubble as the common people cheer.

Those walls are as merciless as I. We forgive nothing. The Bastille has a thousand ghosts crying for blood within him, begging to be remembered. I have my stitches.

I knit so that, even if I'm not alive, the crimes of these people will be remembered by future rebels and paid for in full. I need not worry about remembering myself. I forget nothing.


	2. Hit, Click, Hit, Click

I am knitting when my husband brings the cobbler in. My husband has not introduced him as Jacques so I know he is not another rebel. The poor man looks to weak to live through the night, at any rate, much less fight. I say nothing. Later my husband tells me he was a Bastille prisoner. Perhaps he still is. The pitiable man knows neither his own name nor anything else about himself. He simply sits at his cobbler's bench, hammering all day. I begin to knit in time to his hits. It is fitting, in a way. He works to mentally escape his captors; I work to permanently enslave them.

Hit, click, hit, click, hit, click.

Our pattern is interrupted as a casket of wine breaks, causing the street to flow red. People cry out and race to lap up every drop. I hear laughter in the road but do not join it. Children laugh and run and play. These people are children. I give a grim smile. I will drink my fill someday, but it won't be of wine.

I raise my eyes when I feel two unfamiliar shadows fall through the door. There is an older man and, hanging on to his arm, a girl with golden hair, framing her face like a halo. I study them as they sit down. I put down my kiting and pick up my toothpick. When my husband returns he notices immediately and begins to scan the shop. He notices them and walks over to more regular customers. They talk and laugh about the wine in the street. Fools! They use the code name without thinking! I cough and raise an eyebrow. They ignore me, using the name again. I repeat my performance. When they use it for the third time I rustle bit with my usual cough and eyebrow raising. My husband's eyes meet mine for a moment and the others sweep off their hats. I nod to them as my husband and I talk through the world of eyes.

I drop my hands to my work and begin to kit, pretending to become deaf and blind to the world. The older man speaks to my husband and they go to the prisoner's room with the girl. I do not follow. I wait patiently for them to return. So patiently, that most would not think that I had noticed they left at all. The ability to pretend to notice nothing and see everything as well as the ability to wait were both taught to me in childhood. My stepfather said you could not catch a wary fish. So sit with your hooks, not touching them, and pretend not to notice how close the fish get. If you have the right bait, they will come.

Later I will hear from my husband what happened. For now, they come down the stair. I lean against the doorpost, knitting, and never raising my eyes. The prisoner calls for his tools and I get them. It is right that I get them. We worked in time with our tools. I bring them down quickly, not being one to loiter. Then I lean against the doorpost and continue my knitting. Click, click, click. I knit alone. The carriage pulls away and I raise my eyes to meet my husband's. Something has happened today, he tells me without words. I know, I answered the same way. I know.


	3. A New Jacques

My husband has gone on another trip. Business does not fall in his absence. Indeed, it expands, for many know why he has gone. They know that he goes to find more rebels. Some do not, but they hold their peace. They know they are not to ask where he went or why. The only ones who try to discover what happened to him are the spies.

I hear Earnest's footsteps and look up. He has returned with a road mender named "Jacques". He calls for me to get him a drink and I do. After a few minutes they head up to the room I still think of as the prisoner's room and talk for a long time with the other Jacques. After an hour or so he comes down with the other three but without the road mender. My husband said he gave the man a pallet and I, taking my cue, close up the shop.

We walk up to our bedroom and I put away my kitting as we prepare for bed. After a few minutes Ernest turns to me.

"He wishes to see royalty." He need not tell me whom we are talking about.

"Oh, and why is that?" I ask raising an eyebrow.

"He is a simple man who has never been far beyond his home before. He imagines that all things so far removed from his severe life must be wonderful. Royalty is as far removed as possible so naturally he imagines…" my husband made a sweeping gesture.

I nod, "Then by all means, let us go. Far be it from us to deny a man such pleasures as this." Earnest nods and we say no more about it tonight.


	4. Seeing Royalty

For the next few days the road mender stays with us. He is a weak man on whom one can easily make an impression. Within a few minutes I can already feel his trepidation. I frighten him with my cold, unfeeling attitude. He is a man I may need to use latter. To this end I make a point of not noticing him or acknowledging him in any way, impressing on him my determination and ability to carry out whatever task I wish.

When Sunday comes and I announce I will accompany him and Earnest to see royalty he turns a delicate pale shade and stutters out, "Enchanted" even though he is not. His eyes flicker nervously over my kitting on our way to Versailles and as we stand waiting for the nobility to file out. He is not the only one who notices and another man in the crowd mentions my hard work. Knowing who is listening I say that I have much to do, which is true. When one lies the lie can come back to haunt one. So I make a point to always to tell the truth, though not the whole truth.

The man asks me what I make and I say many things. Again, I speak the truth for my symbols are multiple and varied.

"For instance–" he asks.

"For instance, shrouds." I reply with my usual composure. For indeed, I make shrouds for many people. The man moves away quickly and the road mender regards me with even greater alarm. But soon we hear the trumpets and the King and Queen present themselves.

I overwhelmed the man with my cool headedness and gained a fear from him that will last a lifetime. Royalty overwhelms him with a sudden display of glitter and jewels that will make a brief but stirring impression. I catch my husband's eye and Earnest reaches forward to grab the man's collar before he flies straight at them.

"Long live everybody" he cheers, jumping up and down and reducing himself to tears. For three hours we stand. I am knitting and he exhausts himself as he proves his devotion to beings that will never know his name. When it is over the impression that the glitter of jewels made disappears. My husband congratulates the man, telling him he did well. He made those fools believe that they have nothing to fear, for the common people love them and their wealth shall last forever. For the first time I speak to him. First I fix him with a cold look from my dark green eyes. Then I ask him if he would lavish such attention on all things that looked and acted as nobles did. He replies in the affinitive. Then I ask him two questions.

"If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon the, to pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?"

He answers yes, unable to look away from or lie to my piercing gaze. So I ask my second question. "Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds unable to fly, and were set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage, you would set upon the birds of finest feathers; would you not?"

"It is true Madame." I nod once.

"You have seen both dolls and birds today," I said gesturing to the spot they were last. I stare steadily into his eyes until I see a flicker of comprehension that shows he understands. I inwardly smile and nod; he is a perfect tool. Releasing him from my gaze I look back to my knitting, "Now, go home."


	5. Patience

My husband and I return after midnight. He speaks to the policeman on our side as we enter the gates. As we walk through the streets I break silence.

"Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?"

"Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he can say, but he knows of one."

"Eh well!" I said in my business voice. "It is necessary to register him. How do they call that man?"

"He is English."

"So much the better," it is easy to identify foreigners, "His name?"

"Barsad. B-A-R-S-A-D."

"Barsad. Good. Christian name?"

"John."

"John Barsad. Good. His appearance; is it known?"

"Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair; complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face, thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore, sinister."

"Eh my faith. It is a portrait!" I laugh. "He shall be registered to-morrow."

We arrive home and I check the accounts. I count the money, inspect the stock and cross-examine the serving man. He is an honest man, I wouldn't have left him here otherwise, but I trust no one completely. I begin to knot up the coins for safekeeping. My husband paces, paying no attention to my work. He waves his hand to disperse a smell.

"You are fatigued," I observe. "There are only the usual odors."

"I am a little tired," he admits, looking off into the distance.

"You are a little depressed, too. Oh, the men, the men!"

"But my dear," he begins. But I am in no mood to listen tonight.

"But my dear! But my dear! You are faint of heart tonight, my dear!"

"Well, then, it is a long time." he says.

"It is a long time. And when is it not a long time? Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule." I know this better than anybody, I who have waited since childhood for revenge.

"It does not take long to strike a man with Lightening," he says. I had thought of this myself, wondering why a supposedly just God did not help me or my family in such a way. This was before I realized there was no such being.

"How long," I ask him, "does it take to make and store the lightening? Tell me?" He thought about this for a moment without answering and I continue. "It does not take a long time for an earthquake to swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the earthquake?"

"A long time I suppose." My husband answers in a slow, thoughtful voice.

"But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything before it. In the mean time, it is always preparing, though it is not seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it." My eyes flash as I tie the knot. "I tell thee that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with more and more of certainty ever hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock you."

He speaks then in the low, soft voice he uses when my words are quick and passionate. He says that it may not come during our lifetime, that we might not see triumph. I jerk up my head as if he has struck me.

"We shall have helped it." I say. I tell him what he knows, that nothing we do is ever in vain. I speak the words that I tell myself each evening, for he has touched my only fears tonight. "…show me the neck of an aristocrat or tyrant, and still I would––" I cut off, fastening the knot a little harder than necessary.

My husband turns red and protests that he to will stop it nothing.

"Yes!" I say. "But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that. When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the time with the tiger and the devil chained – not shown – yet always ready." I hit the moneybag on the table. Then I carefully gather it up and mention it is time for bed.


	6. Names and Faces

By noon the next day I am knitting when I feel a new person enter. Putting down my knitting I pick up my rose and pin it in my hair. The customers notice instantly and begin to slip away in the most natural manner possible.

"Good day, madam." The spy says.

"Good day, monsieur." I reply. 'Hah!' I think. 'Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark, thin long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister expression! Good day, one and all!' I fetch him some water and cognac, which he compliments. I reply that it is flattered, knowing its taste all to well. I continue my knitting and the spy watches for a few moments before commenting on the fact.

"You knit with great skill, madam."

"I am accustomed to it."

"A pretty pattern too!"

"You think so?" I ask with a smile. This will not be the first time, nor the last, that a man has praised his own destruction. But it is a treat I relish.

"Decidedly." He says. "May one ask what it is for?"

"Pastime." I reply, memorizing his features so I might be sure to stitch in every detail.

"Not for use?" he asks. Ha! I'll use it, and how!

"That depends." I say simply. "I may find a use for it, one day. If I do – well, I'll use it!" Two men enter, and then leave when they see my rose. The other customers have already left and the spy is looking about the empty shop in a worried way. I smile as I click off JOHN. 'Stay long enough,' I think, 'And I shall knit "BARSAD" before you go.'

He asks me about my family and my business, looking for crumbs, good mouse that he is, to bring home. I give him none, but instead take definite pleasure in countering his every attempt. He's moving on to Gaspard when my husband enters the shop. The spy attempts to use the code name but Earnest, warned by my flower, turns it away. My husband comes to stand behind me and watches the man as the spy renews his attempts. Then he takes an unexpected track, bringing up Doctor Manette. I try to force him to change tracks again, but he continues on to tell me of Miss. Manette's marriage to Charles Evremonde. I knit the D into his name without missing a beat, but my husband shows he's troubled.

The spy leaves and we wait a few moments to see if he is truly gone before my husband asks me if I think it is true what has been said about her wedding. I am certain it is, but I mention my doubts of the source. My husband hopes that for her sake Evremonde is kept out of France. He practically pleads for me to admit my pity for the family, but I cannot. I take the rose from my hair and soon our customers return.

That night many woman gather. I go from group to group, telling them what I have stitched since we last met. Each woman then stitches it in her own symbols. The record must not be lost! Yet I do not tell anyone what I shall knit tomorrow. L-U-C-I-E.


	7. Fall of the Bastile

I grew up in a fisherman's hut near the sea. Every morning my stepfather would take his children and I out to ask us what the sea would be like that day. I learned how to tell the difference between a day that would be clear, and one that would become a storm. Then he would take us out, a different person each day, and we would learn how to fish and sail. He taught me how to control a boat even in the stormiest and temperamental of weathers.

I remember everything I have been taught and use it when needed. Some things I teach myself, like how to fire a gun. The day finally comes when I need to know, the day when we are to storm the Bastille. They gather about the wine shop as we hand out tools. My husband is at the center giving orders to the chaotic crowd. He looks for me.

"Eh, well! Here you see me!" I call with an axe in my hand and a pistol and knife in my girdle.

"I go with you, at present. You shall see me at the head of woman, by-and-by."

"Come then!" he calls "Patriots and friends, we are ready! The Bastille!" The roar from the people could match the roar of the mighty ocean herself when she is in a rage. My husband mans the gun for hours – he could shame the army's best soldier. And their commander to boot! He calls the men to his side and they come willingly.

"To me women!" I cry above the noise. "What! We can kill as well as the men when the place is taken!" They come, thirsty for the blood we shall soon shed.

The drawbridge drops and we sweep in. My husband stands in the middle of the courtyard, looking about and taking stock. I hold a knife in my right hand and cut a man's throat with a fierce sweeping gesture. A woman behind me cries in triumph and fires upon another man. Swooping down, she plucks his drum from his body and puts it on.

"Play!" I call to her. She looks at me with a startled look in her eye.

"Play!" I command again. "Play your drum to the beat of my heart, Vengeance, and see if they do not tremble and fall to the ground in fear."

Boom! The sound rolls across the courtyard. Patriot, patrol and prisoner alike listen.

Boom! I cry out and let my voice soar with the drum in triumph.

Boom! More voices join mine as we plunge deeper into battle. I stab a man then shoot another through the head, composed as ever. Only my eyes have changed; alight with green fire they glow like a cat's, showing my passion. We capture the governor and people begin to call for my husband. Some fear he might have died, a few ask if he has left the battle. My eyes scan the doorways until I see him stride through one.

"See, there is my husband!" I cry, pointing him out. The sea turns to see where my finger is pointing.

"See Defarge!" They rise like a wave to sweep my husband and the governor through the streets. I do as I have been taught and keep my position by the governor's side as we ride through the streets just as if I were controlling a boat in particularly unpredictable storm. As we close in on our destination people begin to strike at him and kill him. I have been waiting by his side; composed as ever, and, with one motion, behead him. The street flows red once more and my eyes drink it in as thirstily as people drank wine before.


	8. Past Crimes

That night my husband and I return to the shop and he shows me a package he took from Doctor Manette's old cell. He breaks the seal and I fetch my kitting, ready to stich in the names of any who might be denounced in this tale. He begins a story that I know far to well. A young woman is taken from her husband she loved, to be used for the pleasure of a noble brat. Her husband dies and her father is worked to death. Then her brother, loyal and brave, is killed. Yet the nobles treat the destruction of an entire family as nothing more than an inconvenience and dreadful waste of time. When Ernest lays down the paper he looks at me in surprise.

"What now my wife?" he asks. "I know this family has been long on your register, but why do you not stitch in these crimes as well?"

"Because they are already there." I say in barely more than a whisper. He studies my face in mild surprise. He looks as if he might speak but I speak first.

"I was seven."

"Pardon?" he asks, confused. I stand and walk to the window. "I have a secret that I have not told you." I say in a low, cool voice. "One that I have not told anyone." I take a deep breath and struggle to keep my emotions under control. "Defarge, I was brought up among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant-family so injured by the two Evrémonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father, those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things descends to me!" I turn to him, eyes blazing. I never heard my brother's last words before and they stimulate the fierce fire burning within me. The wind blows through a slightly opened window, tossing my hair about my face. My kitting is held in one hand, my still bloody knife in the other. Our eyes meet and his reveal shock and slight fear. Fear of what I might do. I close my eyes and take a deep breath as the wind ceases. I sheath my knife and lay my knitting upon the table.

"Tell the wind and the fire where to stop." I state in my coldest voice, "but don't tell me." I go upstairs and get in bed.

A few minutes later I hear my husband say, "Long live the devil." Then he comes upstairs and we sleep.


	9. Eating Grass

A week after the fall of the Bastille I am in the wine shop, enjoying the heat the sun brings. A woman, The Vengeance, sits beside me knitting. Those both inside and outside are all still aglow with our recent victory. I nod and view them with carefully calculated approval. Suddenly, Vengeance's head comes up with a snap.

"Hark!" she cries, "Listen, then! Who comes?" I hear the murmurs upon the street and listen carefully to the footsteps. Recognizing them I get to my feet.

"It is Defarge," I declare. "Silence, patriots!" My husband rushes in, pulling off his red cap. Those in the shop get to their feet and those outside gather about in a semi-circle.

"Listen, everywhere!" I say again. "Listen to him." When silence reigns I turn to him.

"Say then, my husband. What is it?"

"News from the other world!"

"How, then?" I ask impatiently. "The other world?"

"Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the starving people that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?"

"Everybody!" the watchers cry.

"The news is of him. He is among us!" People reply in unintelligible shouts that all ask the same question. Is he dead? Earnest then tells us he faked his own death to escape us and is now a prisoner of Hôtel de Ville.

"I have said he had reason to fear us." He says then, "Say all! Had he a reason?" The resounding agreement shakes the walls; I am the only one who does not speak. All fall silent as my husband and I, through our eyes, speak in a language that no outsider could ever understand.

Then he calls, "Patriots! Are we ready?"

I give a slight nod to my lieutenant and she snatches up her drum. Boom! The sound rolls across the town. I snatch up my knife and we rush into the street. Vengeance's drum plays the underscore of our march. The men's bloodthirsty shouts give us our melody accompanied by the shrieks of the women.

Within fifteen minutes, the town is empty.

My husband and I with our lieutenants, Vengeance and Jacques Three, are the first into the hall. The rest gather in any opened space.

"See!" I cry, pointing with my knife. "See the old villain bound with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back. Ha, ha! Let him eat it now!" I clap my hands gleefully, and soon the claps resound behind me as others learn the cause of my merriment. For two or three hours we stand in the courtroom. I give a gesture of impatience that is relayed to those behind me.

A drop of sun falls upon his head. My husband and I nod to each other, and his fate is sealed. My husband and I move almost as one person; he grasps the man from behind and I turn my killing knife upon his rope. Even before our task is completed we hear the cries to bring Foulon out.

We obey.

He is dragged though the streets as thousands of hands stuff grass in his mouth. We bring him to the nearest lamppost and I let him go, knowing there is no way for him to escape this crowd. Seeing me as the leader, he begs me for mercy. Bah! He might as well beg my knitting to undo itself. Two times we hoist him aloft, only to have him fall back into our arms. The third time the rope holds and his head is placed upon a pike. Nor is this the end.

A messenger comes to my husband, breathless and panting, to tell him news of Foulon's son-in-law. He has escorts, but not even the king's army could keep him from us. We walk home in triumph with three heads upon our poles. Most people go home, but it is morning before our shop is empty.

"At last it is come, my dear!" my husband says as he fastens the door.

"Eh well! Almost." I reply. He looks at me and I know he understands. It will never be over for me till every last Evremonde has died by my hand. I bind the coins and put away my knitting. Glancing down, I read their names before I sleep. It has begun, and can only end with death, theirs or mine. A moonbeam falls through the window and lights one name. L-U-C-I-E


	10. Among Women

L-U-C-I-E and I will meet for the second time in her apartment. Her husband has been in France for a little over a week and complications have arisen.

Made a saint because of his Bastille sufferings, Doctor Manette now has great influence; influence he would use to spring Evrémonde free. My husband told me when Evremonde arrived and I have been waiting for his execution ever since. I had delayed, wanting him to experience prison before his death. Also, I knew there was a chance he might be freed because of the prisoner Gabeli. So I waited… ill fortune! Had I but sprung earlier he might be dead! But when I learned that his wife and daughter were here as well I congratulated myself and remembered that patience seldom goes unrewarded.

I go to see them today. The doctor is working his full influence at La Force and so I must work hard to counteract it. We who worked together long ago must now work against each other. Save this time, we play the delicate game of politics with words and works instead of the easily learned labor of hands and hammers. Very well! He has chosen me as his opponent; now we must play until one has triumphed. We both know the price for losing and the reward for winning.

My thoughts are interrupted as my husband comes down the stairs solemnly with Mr. Lorry. Earnest's grim face would give away my intent to any but the blind, but the banker is blinded with the tears of joy. These tears will clear soon, however, so I shoot my husband a warning look that he does not see. It took me more than a little while to convince him to let me see them; in the end he gave in, but unhappily.

The Vengeance walks proudly by my side as we whisk through the streets. I do not look up from my knitting, knowing theses streets well. The descriptions of those I am to meet must be stitched in.

I watch with mild interest as Lucie reads the note. She, weak creature she is, is thrown into passionate weeping and grasps my hand to kiss it. I do not react, but let my hand fall before continuing to knit in her image. She starts at this and hesitates in the act of putting away her note. She watches me, terrified. I watch her, cold. I study my opposite for a moment. She has bright blue eyes and golden hair. I have dark green eyes and black hair. She is poised and delicate. I am steady and strong. Her love, kindness, and sweet grace make people willing to die for her. My strength, vision, and determination cause people to be willing to kill for me. She has lived a soft life, surrounded by people who love her and spoil her in every way. I have lived a harsh life, forced to work hard and take care of myself in many ways. Now, however, our positions have been reversed. Now she must learn the wisdom of hiding her emotions, else things will go ill for her. Now she shall live through a mockery of hell, one I shall create, and I shall watch, untouchable.

The banker speaks, telling her I have come to see her and her child so I might know whom I might protect. I agree with this, not saying, however, that I will protect them. They send for Evremonde's child and the nursemaid.

The old English woman enters first. She gives a remark to The Vengeance, one I cannot understand but doubt is complementary. She then looks at me coughs disapprovingly. Neither of us pay attention to her. I stop work for the first time when I see the child. She looks so much like her mother that I am sure I cannot be mistaken, but ask anyway.

"Is that his child?" I point one of my nettles at the girl. Mr. Lorry answers to the affirmative. The child looks about the same age I was when my family was destroyed. It has a fine symmetry to it. The mother feels my hate and bends down to clap the child to her. She to falls under my shadow and I smile, turning to go.

I am stopped by Lucie's appealing hand falling on my skirt. "You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will help me see him if you can?"

"Your husband is not my business here. It is the daughter of your father that is my business here." I return, looking impassionedly down at her passionate face.

"For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more afraid of you than these others." I receive this complement with grace. So the girl is not an empty headed fool after all. Ah, but her pleads come too late, too late! I smile and look to my husband. He knows of my hatred and has been watching us with a worried expression. When my eyes land on him he composes himself.

"What is it that your husband says in that little letter?" I ask with a dark smile. "Influence; he says something touching influence?"

She pulls out the letter hurriedly and thrusts it toward me, her eyes never leaving my face. "That my father has much influence around him."

"Surely it will release him! Let it do so." I will make no promises, not even for the pleasure of betraying this family. In this world one's words are more than likely to kill you. This Doctor's influence will free him; I will assure it without seeming to do so. Then, when he returns he will have a moment of peace to remain with his family so I might rip him away with great satisfaction. The second time he will not escape.

"As a wife and mother, I implore you to have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you posses against my innocent husband, but to use it on his behalf. O sister-woman, think of me. As a wife and mother!"

I give my coldest smile and turn to Vengeance. "As wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have known their husband and fathers lay in prison and kept from them, often enough? All our lives we have seen our sister-woman suffer, in themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst, sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?"

"We have seen nothing else." Vengeance replies stoutly.

"We have borne this a long time. Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife and mother would be much to us now?" Especially, I mentally add, since your husband's family was responsible for much of this. I return to my knitting and leave the room, followed by Vengeance and my husband. The door closes behind us, but not before I hear Mr. Lorry say to Lucie one word, "Courage."


	11. Round One

Evermonde's first trial took place when his daughter was seven; a fitting parallel, in my mind. There is no question of him being condemned; the good doctor has ensured that. I sat in the crowd next to my husband that day. I felt it when Evremonde's eyes fell upon me, but I merely whispered to my husband, "Round one."

The prisoner and his witnesses made a good impression upon the jury, particularly the doctor. There was much celebrating when he was let free. I was not there, but my "friends", my spies in other words, told me what happened. The people carried him home on a chair draped with a red flag.

When they got to his house people began dancing and celebrating. Many tears were shed as he and his wife were reunited and it was more than a little while before their courtyard was clear. I was pleased to hear these things, although my messenger could not tell.

That night my husband asked me why I rejoiced to hear of the happiness of my sworn enemy. I could only sigh at this, my husband never did understand the finer points of cruelty.

"Because," I explained to him, "He will be overcome with happiness. His family and friends will be celebrating. The doctor will be delighted that his sufferings set his son-in-law free; thrilled that they helped in the long run. His wife will be crying blissfully and his daughter will not move from her father's side. And it is at the height of their joy that they shall discover that they have not escaped at all, but were merely in the eye of the hurricane for a brief moment. They will learn that the nightmare is far from over; that their wonderful dream, is only a dream indeed. And as everyone knows," I said as I got to my feet and wrapped up my knitting, "dreams only exist so you can escape reality, but reality," I opened the door, "always catches up. Come."

"Where are we going?" he asked as he pulled on his coat.

"To denounce him, of course. It is our patriotic duty." I gave him a brief smile and stepped into the night. He hesitated for a moment then gave a resigned sigh.

"Long live the devil." He murmured, and we left.


	12. Round Two

"Round two," I think contently. My husband took the stand moments before and I can only see his back. There was an uproar when the name of the third denounced was told! Doctor Alexander had much to say on him being the denouncer of Charles. I almost laughed. If only he knew. There are brief, meaningless, words being said now.

The court asks about Earnest's early life, the doctor being delivered, those sorts of things. Finally we come to the day the Bastille fell.

"You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?" they ask.

"I believe so." He replies calmly.

"You were one of the best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day there, and you were among the first to enter that accursed fortress when it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!" I need not look up to know it is The Vengeance who speaks, especially when she shrieks, "I defy that bell!" when the judge tries to quiet the court.

"Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille, citizen."

"I knew," he began, but broke off, glancing at me pleadingly. I simply look up at him steadily, unyielding, until he continues. He tells of finding the paper, of confirming that it is Doctor Manette's, reading it, and giving it to the judge and finally, the paper is read. As my story is told my eyes do not move from the prisoner. He looks only at his wife.

"Yes, take joy in her pretty face while you can, Evremonde." I silently mock him, "Your family always had an eye for beauty." When the paper has been read through, ending with Manette's denouncement of the Evremonde family, such a shout goes up in the courthouse! No man could stand with his head on his shoulders under that evidence! The judge asks a few meaningless questions, the only words I hear are those that he speaks to the doctor. He says that Manette should take pleasure in orphaning his grandchild and widowing his daughter. Bravo sir! I could not have made a more cutting remark myself.

"Much influence around him, has that Doctor?" I murmur, smiling to Vengeance. "Save him now, my doctor, save him!" The sentence is no surprise, death within twenty-four hours!


	13. Strength

I glance around once and, seeing my co-conspirers, beckon them forward. The road mender has become useful indeed and it is in his shop we meet. He hovers on the edge of our circle in evident awe of me. He will obey me no matter what I tell him to do or say. Jacques Three, the Ogre, is bloodthirsty and would send his own child to the guillotine. The Vengeance is my loyal lieutenant and will obey my orders. Knowing of my loyalty to my husband she loudly protests when the Ogre questions his allegiance. I reply he is an excellent patriot, but he has his weaknesses and I fear that he may show pity toward the doctor.

Personally, I care nothing for him. One side of me remembers the occasion we sat working in time; the other half of me protests that he is a member of the Evremonde family now and works to set Charles free. I might not care for him, but Lucie and her daughter must follow Charles to La Guillotine. The Ogre agrees with relish, as I knew he would.

I bite my lip and look away, slightly disgusted by his enthusiasm. It is true what he says, but I still hesitate. I recall my husband's words and how Lucie begged so earnestly for her child. Then I harden myself. Did the Evremondes help me when I was her age? Did they spare my family because of my youth? No!

I bring up my head and voice the possibility they may try to escape. Jacques Three cries about against this and I bring up my second reason for the meeting. Earnest does not feel the drive I do to destroy this family, and I feel no more compassion for the Doctor. It is simply a question, then, should I spare him or no?

"Come hither little citizen." I call to the woodcutter/road mender. He comes with out hesitation, watching me with wide frightened eyes. I ask him if he could witness that Lucie made symbols to the prisoners. He agrees readily and Jacques Three applauds the "evidence". I ask about the jury. Jacques Three says I have naught to fear from them. I never did, but it is good to assure all lose ends are tied up.

I ask again about the doctor. In the end I decide that he must look after himself. He has as much of a chance as any man and more than some. If he can live through the Bastille he may be able to endure a revolutionary jury and come out alive. I saved myself; let him to the same!

I decide that I cannot fully trust my plans to a single witness and decide to take the stand myself. The others, parrots that they are, instantly begin to praise me, saying there is no better witness. I can barely stop my lip from curling in disgust at this crude and obvious flattery.

I change topic quickly, asking the woodcutter if he will be at the guillotine today. If I ask, of course! In fact, if I believed everything he said, he spent his life watching the guillotine. I tell him he will join me tonight in giving evidence. He says he will be honored and I can only look at him in disgust. Within seconds he has retreated to his saw and I beckon the other two closer.

I tell them that I will go to the house of Evremonde's family. Lucie will be mourning her husband and it will be excellent evidence for latter. I tell Vengeance to wait for me with my knitting and turn to go. I strode through the nearly empty streets. My eyes flicker from side to side, looking for danger. I fear no one and my steps do not falter, but it is good to always be on one's guard.

That is one reason I am still alive.

Everyone else may die, but not me. I made myself strong.

When I was a child we played a game in which we would stack sticks on top of each other in the shape of a tower. Then we would take turns pulling out a stick and someone would bring the tower crashing down. I never lost. It was a simple game to win if you know how. First find the invisible keystone that, when removed, will topple everything. Pride is the corner stone in my tower's foundation so I kept it hidden from view or someone would pluck it out.

Then I found the sticks that were unimportant, could be yanked from the wall and the tower wouldn't even sway. People lied to me; they killed my family and destroyed my home then said it was "God's will" that they had the power to do so. But that wasn't cheating. There is no cheating. Just strategy and tactics and it doesn't matter how one plays as long as you win.

I found the sticks that were dangerous to me. I looked for the worthless ones that made the tower top-heavy, and took them first, so it would be light enough even when the base was undermined.

This was the necklace my sister made for me on my birthday. It wasn't useful; it wasn't a tool. Anything physical could be taken from me; it was only decoration and would someday become too small. Throw it away.

This was forgiveness that saps one's drive and makes you hesitate right before you strike the finishing blow. Toss it out.

This was the silly game I played with the children of my village, the game that needed nothing but imagination and helped me escape from the harsh reality of my life. I don't have time for games anyway. Forget about it.

Then I tugged out tears, they only showed my weaknesses. I lived through hell; nothing that happens now could wound me. I don't need them.

I found pity. I have never seen it before; I don't know what to do with it. Throw it away.

These were my Sunday mornings when my brother tickled me awake.

Here were the childish games that weren't really important; the ones that were left behind that night my brother came home and told me what happened before he took me somewhere else, somewhere I was supposed to be safe.

Those were the games it didn't matter if I lost. Now I have to win. In every game there is a way to win, I just had to find it.

One day I did. The darkness was always there; I simply encouraged it, like watering a plant. I began to laugh again. Everyone looked at me when I did, not understanding why. They didn't realize; I won.

Increase the darkness; use it. Let it grow, let it swell up, so it curls around the tower and weaves through the holes. It filled the gaps, now the tower stands without swaying. Soon it no longer mattered what piece I removed, because the darkness can expand to fill any breach. I win; I always win. I'm not allowed to lose, I don't even remember how.

But I do remember pain. Pain is valuable now; I've learned to turn it into hate and hate I can use. Hate will help me mercilessly destroy this family that destroyed mine without a second thought.

I hear the carts rolling toward La Guillotine. I hurry forward, my step never hesitating despite the treacherous roads. I arrive at the house. I walk up the stairs and onto their floor. There is no one there but the old English woman washing her face. Looking up she sees me and cries out, dropping the basin. The water runs forward and wets the tips of my shoes. I give a grim smile of amusement. I glance at the water, remembering days at the seashore. Yet the water somehow looks like blood. I wonder for a moment when blood seemed more natural, but shove the thought away.

"The wife of Evremonde; where is she?" I ask. Suddenly, something occurs to the woman and she rushes about, shutting all the doors, and places herself in front of the room Evermore's wife occupied. I do nothing to stop her; one minute of observation can save your life. I watch her breathing heavily as she babbles some incoherent words to me. I look in her eyes and see determination in them. She is not as patient or unwavering as I am. Yet she is resolute; the type of woman who does not wait and plan, but the type who makes a decision or places her loyalty and sticks by it come hell or high water. We evaluate each other with the knowledge that we are equally firm and enemies in every way possible. I break the silence first.

"On my way yonder where they reserve my chair and my kitting for me, I am come to make my complements to her in passing. I wish to see her." The woman replies in her native tongue and I cannot understand her. I look into her eyes, trying to read them and to understand what she has said through them. I change my words from warnings to threats.

"It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this moment. Good patriots will know what that means. Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?" The woman replies and, though I don't understand her words, I understand to well her intentions.

"Woman imbecile and pig-like! I take no answer from you! I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!" The woman shakes her head and speaks again in English. I take a step forward and the weak woman bursts into tears. I laugh at her obvious display of cowardice and my own pervious assumptions of her bravery.

"Ha, ha! You poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that Doctor." Raising my voice I call, "Citizen Doctor! Wife of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool, answer the Citizeness Defarge!" No one answers and the English woman's eyes suddenly betray fear. I'm hit with an abrupt realization.

Spinning I turn and walk to the first door. I fling it open and glance inside. I see no one. I go cold inside with realization. Whirling I fling opened the others; all tell the same story. Escaped! Evremonde's family escaped! I almost leave when I remember the other woman in the room and the door she's guarding. Perhaps they have hidden in that room and will then escape when I leave. I will not be made the fool! I turn to the woman.

"Those rooms are in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind you! Let me look." I must know for certain before I raise the alarm. I might still catch them if they have tried to get away, but I will not be deceived and call for help when there is no need. I have fought and killed my way to the position of a queen and I will not play the part of the court jester.

The woman comprehends my French as little as I follow her English but her reply is accompanied by a sharp shake of the head and I know we understand each other perfectly.

"If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and brought back." I murmur. The woman says something and my head snaps up. I narrow my eyes. Surely even a fool such as this knows who I am and not to stop me.

"I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me, I will tear you to pieces but I will have you from that door." I can't understand her reply, but know she isn't moving. I make for the door and she clamps her hands about my waist. I strike out at her, clawing and biting and scratching. I learned how to street fight when I was a child and one was more than likely to be robbed walking home with one's bread. Yet the woman clings to me even as I draw blood.

This is ridiculous!

She even manages to lift me from the floor! I reach for my knife but her hands are in the way. She says words that I cannot understand, but comprehend the meaning of. She is mocking me! Taunting me because I will not be able to draw my knife.

I will not be stopped!

Twisting my arm around I pull out my gun and fire. There is a loud bang and everything goes black.


	14. Epilogue

I see my body. It's strange seeing your body lying like that.

There's a bullet hole in my head. But no pain. I think it will be impossible to feel pain any more. I wonder what that will be like. Funny, I can't think of life without pain. Of course I'm not alive any more so I'll never have the chance to find out.

My thoughts are becoming disconnected and blurry now. I see a woman with jet-black hair and flashing dark green eyes. She's hunting down two people who never wronged her, but she wants revenge on them just the same. She's wearing a red cap and a rough robe or I could mistake her for a noble. She could be, with all the arrogance she has in every step. Preying on the innocent, and ignoring their humanity… oh yes, I could easily put her in the place of any aristocrat. Suddenly I realize that I'm looking at myself.

How very strange.

Have I become what I most despise? Does it always work out like that I wonder? If someone hurts you and you hurt them back, does that make you them? I don't know; my thoughts are slipping away from me.

It's almost funny, I never thought about this before. I try to laugh, and then realize I can't remember how. Not really.

It seems like I missed a lot. My days and nights were filled with bitterness and hate – with plans of retribution. I never once questioned myself, never stopped to think. I always assumed I was right, how could I not be? After all that was done to me I deserved my revenge.

And died trying to get it.

Don't be mistaken; I don't pity myself. I never have. It's just so ironic...

Now my thoughts have gone completely and only memories are left to me.

Hurt child, bitter woman…

Madame Defarge, the server of wines…

The citizen, the patriot…

Hurt heart, cold heart, hard heart, perhaps no heart…

The knitter, the killer.

Therese.

That was me.


End file.
